


Professor Layton and the Wartime Correspondence

by a_mere_trifle



Series: Professor Layton and the Gentleman's Treason [9]
Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Adventure, Correspondence, Drama, Gen, Interviews, Journalism, Research
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:14:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21556057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_mere_trifle/pseuds/a_mere_trifle
Summary: A mysterious letter leads to a simple, friendly interview that might prove to be the most dangerous confrontation of the campaign to date.[2]“Is this what I do now?” said Paul, after a moment. “Advise you on the least stupid way to do idiotic things?”Layton considered that. “Yes. That does appear to be one of your major roles in this endeavour.”“Bloody hell,” said Paul, and put his head in his hands.
Series: Professor Layton and the Gentleman's Treason [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/987004
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

“I’m going to regret this,” said Paul.

Layton looked up from his newspaper. “Given that you seem to spend your life in a continuous and unbroken state of regret, I’m not sure I can put up a decent argument against that anymore. Nevertheless, might I ask what allegedly unfortunate action you are about to undertake?”

“You’re getting entirely too clever, you know,” said Paul, and handed him a stack of mail.

“You sound disappointed,” Layton said, and began to look through it. Bills, correspondence-- oh, that looked like his mother’s handwriting-- advertisements, and a small package.

Layton picked up the envelope with his mother’s handwriting first. “I’m honestly not sure anymore,” said Paul. “My life is a trainwreck. Maybe I should try to kill you again, it might clear my head.”

“Please don’t,” said Layton. “It would be quite uncomfortable, and embarrassing as well.”

“What, you think I couldn’t do it?”

“To be fair, your success rate hasn’t been exceptional so far,” said Layton.

“Yes, but I only have to manage it once,” Paul pointed out.

“And then what? Shall you carry on our campaign alone?”

Paul glared at him. “You don’t have to be so smug about it.”

“I’m merely pointing out the logical consequences of your actions,” said Layton. “They’re generally wise to keep in mind.”

“You have no idea how much I hate you,” said Paul.

“No,” said Layton, giving him a measuring look, “I really don’t.”

Paul flipped him an obscene gesture and went to work on one of his machines, muttering. Layton shook his head and opened the letter. His mother’s handwriting was loopy, and usually precise, but he’d noticed the loops getting wobbly of late, and it concerned him. Still…

_Dearest Hershel,_

_I hope that you are doing all right. We’ve been so busy on our trip that we rarely get the chance to check up on what’s going on in London._

Well, that was probably deliberate, and he applauded his brother for it.

_We were glad to hear you weren’t hurt in that terrorist incident. It seems like the city is getting more dangerous all the time. I know you’re a grown man and perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, but I still worry about you._

He knew, and it was a constant, quiet guilt at the bottom of his heart. But he was used to letting things slumber there.

_The tour guide is a delightful man, so helpful and clever. I think you’d quite like him if you were to meet. Hopefully when we get back home we can arrange it. He’d probably recognise you on sight by now-- you know your father, he can’t help but tell everyone he meets stories about his wonderful son. I suppose I’m much the same myself! But Mr. Sylvan has been very understanding about it all._

Layton winced. There were a few stories of his childhood he wasn’t entirely certain he wanted his wayward brother to hear. He suspected it was already too late.

_We’ve already been to any number of delightful places. Your father had the most amazing time in Warran. He loved the weather and all the people were so friendly! We couldn’t quite do all the climbing he was interested in, but it’s such a beautiful place. Though, I was just as glad to get away! The fearsome wildlife is not for me! I was interested in going to Montreal, or perhaps Espana, but Mr. Sylvan says we should wait for better weather, and I believe him. Our next stop is a place called San Grio, somewhere in the tropics. I hope your father doesn’t get a sunburn!_

She was so concerned about the weather these days. She was always vague when asked why-- mentioned something about old joints, and quickly changed the subject. He’d thought when he was a child that they’d be more open with him, less protective, one he’d grown up. He still wasn’t sure they’d grown out of it at all, and none of his gentle prodding seemed to do any good. Then again, he tended to be distracted by his own troubles, these days…

_So, Hershel, we miss you, but we’re having a great holiday. I hope your classes are going well! Or are you busy solving some mystery instead? I know you’ll miss your apprentice. Are you doing all right? Has the excitement over that terrorist attack quieted down? Targent are still leaving you alone, aren’t they?_

He hadn’t told them about Claire’s brief return, and he never intended to. It would just trouble them for no good reason. He had told them several times that Targent had been beheaded and to some degree reformed, but his mother still worried about them. He supposed such a long-held habit was difficult to break. And, to be fair, Targent wasn’t exactly trustworthy…

_I’m not quite sure when we’ll be back, but I will be sure to keep you up to date. Don’t forget to write, dear! We’ll see you soon!_

_Love,_

_Ma ( & Pa)_

How long, he wondered, were they going to need to be away? How long _could_ they be kept away? His brother was nothing if not an adept liar, but he hadn’t the faintest notion of how long this crusade might last.

But there was no need to borrow trouble; his stores were overflowing. He refolded the letter and tucked it away, with a sigh. He glanced through the rest-- Professor Scott, Professor Peace, that one elderly woman from Moorspace who was, it had to be admitted, a bit of a crank--

One without a return address caught his eye; he checked the postmark, which was-- oh, dear. Newgate? That narrowed it down to two people, and he wasn’t sure correspondence from either was likely to be good news.

“Have you got to the one from the prison yet?” called Paul.

“Do you always inspect my mail, Paul?”

“Yes?” said Paul, in a tone that implied he was an idiot for even asking.

Layton shook his head and unfolded the letter. It was-- ah. Written in Azran, which certainly solved that puzzle. Well. That was unfortunate.

_Respected young man:_

_I send you my regards from my imprisonment. I hear you are embarking on an ambitious enterprise. Please let me know if I can be of assistance._

He wasn’t going to ask any further favours of the man. He disliked asking even this of him, but a young man’s life was more important than than the potential difficulties and risks of rekindling a correspondence with this man.

_I thank you for your warning that this situation might become difficult. Indeed, the difficulties began almost immediately. With your forewarning, I was able to save the situation. The attacks have continued, but thus far, I have been able to thwart them successfully._

Attacks, was it? It had gone that far? How serious were the attacks? Were they in danger? Was the man going to answer any of these questions?

_At any rate, I have every confidence in my continued success. We are safe in this dovecote and you need not concern yourself over our welfare. I am positive that with my resources, I will be able to hold them off for quite some time. It is fortunate I am not judging you by the quality of your enemies, my boy._

Of course he wasn’t going to answer. Layton pressed his lips together in annoyance, thinking that the quality of his enemies did indeed leave something to be desired. But then, the man wasn’t his enemy anymore.

_I am intensely curious as to just what has provoked this little outburst of yours. I’ve gleaned some information from your carrier-pigeon, who is torn between admiration of your ambition and fury at your nerve, but he doesn’t know everything and isn’t telling me all he knows. Dare I ask just what I am defending the bird from, and why? I will do this favour for you regardless, but I would very much like to know._

Perhaps he owed the man an explanation. He very much did not want to provide one. It seemed-- a dangerous concession, somehow. Which was likely an unfair reaction he would think better of later, but…

_At any rate, best of luck, my gift. Best regards,_

_Your father_

‘Gift’--? Oh, ‘Theodore’, which derived from ‘gift of God’. He’d _told_ the man. He’d been very clear. His name was Hershel Layton, and that man was not his father.

“What the hell is that written in? Hieroglyphics?”

Layton almost jumped. He hadn’t noticed Paul leaving his work, but there he was, attempting to read the letter over his shoulder. “Azran, actually.”

“Oh, of course, what else should I have suspected? Why the hell is someone from Newgate writing you in a dead language? --Hang on, why am I asking why an archaeologist is in prison? All archaeologists should be in prison.”

“Paul!” Layton scolded.

“Never met one who oughtn’t,” said Paul. “I suppose this is the reason that Clive boy isn’t dead yet?”

“It’s a letter from my contact in the prison, yes,” said Layton, cautiously. “Apparently there have indeed been attempts on his life, but he’s got through them unharmed.”

Paul scowled at the letter. "And he’s writing you from prison? You know they read all those letters, right?”

"That would be why it is both obscurely phrased and entirely in Azran, I presume. My correspondent is not an idiot. Except--” He shook his head. “Well, the matter is a subject of debate. But his skills in surreptitious or underhanded dealings were never in question."

“Right, but what’s the chance they can get someone to translate that?” Paul jabbed at the letter with a partially-cleaned wrench. 

Layton moved it further away with a wince. “It’s in Azran, Paul.”

"Do I have to get you a _copy_ of my diploma?"

"Most students of archaeology or other classical disciplines will be aware that the Azran language exists," said Layton. "Some experienced graduate students would be able to identify it upon seeing an example. A modest number of professors could make rudimentary translations. By which I mean they could recognise many nouns; the verbs would take considerable work with some rather rare and dusty dictionaries. And, to be honest, their success rate would not be exceptionally high. The number of people who could reliably translate Azran passages, I can count on my hands. And I can assure you that none of them would."

"Academics are poor," said Paul, still suspicious, "and our enemies are not."

Layton started to form a reply, then found himself laughing as the full implications of Paul's suggestion sank in.

"Layton--"

"Paul, one of those people is me. Another is my correspondent. The third is an international criminal who is currently on the run, from our enemies specifically, though probably not exclusively. The fourth is in Gallia; the fifth and sixth in Tsargrad. The seventh is between islands and is notorious for refusing even legitimate work. And the last happens to own a city."

Paul scowled. "Oh, come on, you can't actually know everyone on the planet who knows this language. Most of the work is usually done by the students anyway. Aren't there classes in it? Take the first one out of class, offer him beer money--"

Layton laughed harder, bracing himself against the table. "Oh, Paul, spoken like a man who has never had to grade a first-year student's language papers."

“Come on! How can there be that few students of a civilization even I’ve bloody heard of?”

“There was a bit of a culling,” said Layton, his amusement ebbing. “It became known that it was a significant risk to take up a study of the Azran; so many students stayed away. Most of the ones who showed promise were… recruited.”

“Recruited?”

“At any rate,” said Layton, “I assure you that the number of people who could translate this letter is exceptionally small. Growing, one hopes, but they would have extraordinary difficulty finding someone to translate this letter, and they would learn very little from it if they did.”

“If you say so,” said Paul, sounding entirely unconvinced, and stalked back toward his machine. Layton sighed; he didn’t want to get into the whole story of it, and the whole story of it would probably fail to convince him anyway. There were indeed undergraduates, but few scholars who could read this dialect with a sufficient level of fluency to produce a useful translation. This was his field, and Paul was just going to have to trust to his knowledge of it.

Just one oddity left, now. He took up the package, which was light and rectangular, with solid sides. There was no return address; the writing was an unfamiliar chicken-scratch. He tore the paper away to reveal--

“Oh, a puzzle-box!”

“Oh, Christ,” said Paul. “Well, at least you’ll be out of my hair for a while.”

“Paul, I don’t actually have to solve every puzzle I see.”

Paul’s head poked out from his machinery, staring at him incredulously.

He felt his cheeks warm slightly as he reconsidered what he had just said. “...Not immediately, at any rate.”

“You’re a god damned liar, Layton,” said Paul, shaking his head, and returned to his work. “I was afraid for a second you actually believed that.”

“I don’t _have_ to solve every puzzle I see!”

“How many times have I tried to tell you that?!”

Layton shook his head at the unjust accusation and turned his attention to the puzzle-box. The trick was generally in determining which pieces were decorative and which were mobile, and then correctly positioning them to allow the box to be opened. He tested the panels carefully, not wanting to apply too much force to an immovable section. But this was constructed well enough that the pieces that could be moved were fairly clear; it was figuring out which, and in what order, that was the puzzle of it. He lost himself in it for a while, testing theory after theory, figuring out the method bit by bit-- and then the lid opened, and he was satisfied, and just a little disappointed. Well, one thing his life had never failed to supply him with was puzzles. 

He opened the box, and a jolt of shock went through him. He took a long, slow breath, calming his nerves, reorienting himself. “Paul?” he called.

“Oh, God, what?” Paul’s head popped up again, with a look of dread.

“I think you’d best come and see this for yourself.”

Paul did, wiping his hands with a rag on his way. “This had better not be something stupid--”

Layton showed him the envelope, cream-coloured and addressed in angular, spiky cursive. _To the Enigmatic Gentleman._

Paul’s face went blank for a moment. “That was in the box?”

Layton nodded.

“Bloody _hell_. They’ve got you dead to rights.” Paul took a deep breath. “Fantastic. What’s it say?”

Layton opened the letter, scanning down the densely-packed page.

_To the Enigmatic Gentleman:_

_My name is Maggie Starling, and I believe you and I could be of great assistance to each other._

_You are attempting to publicize the misdoings of the rich and powerful. I am a newspaper reporter who very much wishes to be taken off of the Society beat. Our goals in this could be completely aligned._

_Please don't think I'm entirely mercenary. Yes, the society beat bores me, and yes, bigger stories are a gateway to more excitement and fame, but I also want to be reporting on stories that matter. I want to make public the injustices of the world, so that, being known, there is at least some chance that they can be fixed. I don't suppose I have to tell you about the sorts of cruelty that can hide in the world's shadows._

_Another aspect to consider is that, as a journalist, I am duty bound to investigate you to the limits of my abilities. However, as a journalist, I am bound by duty and honor to keep my sources strictly confidential. I would rather you be a source than a subject, and I hope you can agree._

_I am often to be found late nights working at a back table in McGarry’s. I devoutly hope that you will find me there._

_Yours truly,  
Maggie Starling_

Layton watched Paul for his reaction. His reaction was terse, a word of but four letters, but Layton found he couldn’t disagree with the sentiment, though he certainly couldn’t approve of the manner in which it was expressed. 

“Well, that certainly leaves me with few options,” he said.

“I like how it’s tantamount to blackmail without quite committing to it,” Paul grumbled. “Goddamn reporters.”

That did seem like an accurate description. Layton considered the situation carefully. She clearly knew his true identity. Whether or not she could prove it was unknowable-- but likely, and rumours would be damaging enough. Given that, obtaining her cooperation was certainly the ideal solution. But could she be trusted? Or would she twist his words to fit her agenda?

Then again, she could just as easily create words for him out of whole cloth, were she that unscrupulous. But people could have odd boundaries for themselves, odd justifications for what was acceptable and what was not. 

“Well, the only option seems to be to accept her invitation,” he said.

“Theoretically--”

“Are you about to mention something that would be unethical, illegal, and highly impractical to do to a member of the free press?”

“...Apparently not,” Paul muttered.

“Still, there are a few options left,” he said. “How to approach this will depend a great deal on her sincerity.”

“Which we can determine by…?”

“Research?”

“Oh, god,” said Paul. “Not the library again. We’re bloody _regulars_ now. Inasmuch as anybody is ‘regular’ in that godforsaken place.”

“What on earth do you--”

“We can’t afford to be regulars anywhere, Layton!”

“Have you an alternative to suggest?”

“...Another building, at least?” he suggested. “There’s got to be more than one library in this city, hasn’t there?”

“But most of the documents we need are housed at--”

“Damnation,” Paul sighed. “Just remember that I told you so when this comes back to haunt us.”

“I shall,” Layton promised.

“You can’t just agree to that!”

“Why can’t I?”

“You’re supposed to argue, you nitwit!”

“Since when are you a proponent of doing what one is supposed to do?”

Paul opened his mouth, then shut it, throwing up his hands. “ _Entirely_ too clever, damn it all.”

“Did you expect me to never adjust?” Layton rose, tidying the pile of mail.

“Yes,” Paul said, “that is, in fact, exactly what I expected of you.”

The man was completely serious. Layton felt surprisingly wounded. “Well, that was a serious miscalculation.”

“Perhaps,” said Paul, sounding unconvinced.

Well, no matter. Layton would just have to continue to prove it.

\--


	2. Chapter 2

\--

Back to the library it was, then, while Paul complained the entire way and Layton occasionally nodded. There was one small bit of luck; there wasn’t any queue, and the librarian they sought was already there.

Elaine was sitting at the information desk, a gaudily beaded red-shaded lamp by her side, looking frazzled. It was a few moments before she seemed to quite realise they were there. “Oh, hello-- oh, hello,” she said, as if it had taken her even longer to quite recognise them. “May I help you?”

“We--”

“Where the hell did that hideous lamp come from?” said Paul.

“I have absolutely no idea,” said Elaine. “Hang on--” She consulted a note that had been taped to it. “Appropriately enough, the Mystery aisle.”

Paul scowled at her. “You’re telling me someone brought an excruciatingly ugly desk lamp into the public library?”

“Once,” said Elaine, “there was an entire stack of plates. Clean plates. A paper airplane of improbable size. Did you know nunchaku are legal to carry provided you don’t use them?” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, sixty children just left and I’ve been out here for three hours. Is there something I can do for you?”

“Would you like a puzzle?” offered Layton.

Paul cuffed him. “Is there any good way of getting information on a reporter other than reading what they’ve written?”

“An established journalist, or--?”

“New,” said Paul.

“Oh, that’s a shame, the older ones start cranking out more books than any sane person would care to contemplate once they… I’m sorry, I’m very tired. Other than asking around, or researching their personal background, yes, their published work is about as good as you’re likely to get. Is there a paper I can pull from the archives for you?”

“The works of Maggie Starling, of the Times,” said Layton. “But I don’t know if you need really bother; the latest few issues should suffice.”

“Yes,” said Elaine, “but it’s _quiet_ down there.”

“Isn’t the library generally quiet?” Layton queried.

“Haven’t you been here often enough to shake the misperception?”

“Tell him,” said Paul. “Tell him the clown scavenger hunt really happened.”

“Oh, God,” said Elaine. “Most of them were perfectly understanding, but one of them just blew his horn in my face. I had to throw him out of the library. Yes, there was a class of circus clowns-in-training who were doing a scavenger hunt in the library. I don’t know why.”

Layton shook his head. “I don’t understand how I could possibly have missed that.”

“He was reading,” said Paul, and shook his head.

“Understandable, to be honest,” said Elaine. “I’m entirely elsewhere when I read.”

“Speaking of,” said Paul, looking toward the doors, “you should go fetch those newspapers. Now.”

“Hmm?” Elaine glanced where he was looking, and stood up immediately. “Thank you, sir,” she said, and hurried into the back room.

“Elaine? Theresa?” A tall, grey-haired man entered, looking around the building.

“What’s happening?” asked the woman at the front desk.

“Someone double-booked the preschoolers for storytime,” said the man. There was a long line of children forming behind him. “I’m going to need anyone we’ve got to spare.”

“You know, Paul,” said Layton, “at times, you are kinder than I would ever have expected.”

“Look at that gaggle.” Paul gestured at the children, most of whom were milling about perfectly peacefully, though Layton had to admit one was now chasing another and attempting to hit him with a book. He wasn’t sure which of the two was the one screaming. “No one deserves that. Well, Hawks deserves that. Also Boa Fop. Boa Fop definitely deserves that. Ascot too. I’m on the fence about you.”

Layton just shook his head. It wasn’t particularly surprising, he supposed, that Paul wouldn’t be fond of small children. He didn’t seem the fatherly type, nor remotely patient with anyone who couldn’t keep up with him. Though he’d been oddly solicitous toward Flora… 

“Well, they’re between us and the reading room, but I sure as hell am not braving that storm,” said Paul, and flopped down in a seat.

Right; the latest newspapers would still be available for perusal. “I’ll fetch them,” said Layton, and set out to wend his way around the class. They were starting to make their way up the stairs; he heard one of the teachers say, “And also they’re going to need library cards.”

“Did you drop the applications off ahead of time?” asked the man, optimistically.

“Here they are!” The teacher proudly handed him a thick sheaf of wrinkled papers.

“Right,” said the man. “That’s great. Theresa!”

“I’ll cover the desk,” said a grey-haired woman, emerging from the back. “James, Irene, you’re on card duty…”

Layton shook his head, stepped carefully around a man with a knitting magazine who appeared to be intoxicated, and took a stack of the Times for perusal. He looked around the reading room and decided he’d best retreat to wait with Paul for the rest of the issues.

He sat, and took the latest paper from the top of the stack. Paul grabbed another, keeping an eye on the desk. She said she was on the society beat; he flipped to that section and found her name on a small article about… he read it through and still wasn’t sure. A party of some sort? Were “debuts” something that occurred outside of Claire’s more furtively hidden paperbacks? Half the article was comprised of names, and he recognised none of them.

“Excellent, three column-inches of one idiot breaking up with another idiot,” said Paul. “I’d be careful around this woman. She must be about to snap.”

Layton took another newspaper, scanning for her name. ‘Oil Heiress Buys New Flat in Paris’. “I do see your point,” he said.

“If she wants to work on real news? And she’s stuck on this?”

Something in the writing did seem a bit… arch, he thought. A bit more acerbic than one would expect from anyone who was content with their lot in life. He picked up another issue and flipped to the society section. _The debutante season is upon us again, and as all anxious high society mothers know, nothing could possibly be of more vital importance. The true make-or-break entrance of the season will be tonight at Felicity Seaborn’s soiree. Who will be the lucky girl to turn Edmund Fortier’s head?_

“She may be grasping on to me as a lifeline,” said Layton. “Escape might prove difficult.”

“‘Fashion expert Tiffany Wilde declares soft claret the color of the season’,” read Paul. “‘One oughtn’t be caught dead in anything else, declared the fashion maven. One hopes the more thriftily minded will be able to divest their wardrobes of last season’s burgundy in time for tonight’s gala, but then, what use is thrift when fashion is involved? Your devoted reporter could not be more ready to positively drown in claret.’”

“Good heavens,” said Layton. ”I don’t think we need to second-guess her motivations…”

“That’s the thing about drowning,” said Paul. “Have you ever heard the stories of some damned fool jumping into a river to rescue someone? The ones where the person drowning claws at them so desperately that they both go down forever?”

“I take your meaning,” said Layton. And yet…

“Theresa, I’ve run out of cards!” called a smartly dressed librarian whose hair was pulled into a long tail.

“Here you are,” said Elaine, passing a long box to the man on her way back to the desk. “Your papers, gentlemen. Can I be of any further assistance? I really ought to help make up cards…”

“No, I believe we have what we need,” said Layton. “Thank you very much.”

“If there’s anything,” said Elaine, “and I do mean anything, please let me know.” She nodded cordially at them before heading for the front desk.

“Huh,” said Paul. “She reported on the Mountebank fiasco.”

“Oh?” Layton leaned over Paul’s shoulder. The photograph was unmistakable, and yes, there was her name on the byline.

“Hang on,” said Paul. He went digging through the newspaper stack; Layton took up the one he’d discarded. He always shied away from reading the stories about his exploits; whatever his ends, he had decidedly mixed feelings still about the means he was employing. His options were limited, certainly, but…

He glanced again at the picture. Some things had to be done.

“The Grey debacle, too,” said Paul. “Hang on--”

Layton pulled the newspaper over to take a look. Yes, her byline still. Much of their work had taken them to society functions, he supposed. He winced a little at the photograph; they’d caught the exact moment Grey had levelled a pistol at his head. A moment that could have gone far differently. Still, it was certainly a good thing the photo had come out; it had wreaked havoc on the man’s reputation. They could hardly have planned a better….

...Hmm. He glanced at the byline under the photograph.

“Good god,” said Paul. “All the way from-- is she the one who gave you that idiotic nickname?”

Layton looked at the page he had open. ‘Enigmatic Gentleman Causes Chaos at Kingsmere Gala’. “Well. I'll have to have words with her about that.”

“No you certainly will _not_. The woman’s dangerous, Layton!”

“Probably so,” said Layton. “However, I am, in fact, going to have to speak with her.”

“She could go to the police, she could spin the story any way she wanted--”

“True,” said Layton, “but she could go to the police at any time with her suspicions, and neither meeting with her nor spurning her will change that.”

“Makes it considerably easier to set up an ambush, though.”

“And lose the story?”

“Being the reporter who discovered the Enigmatic Gentleman and put him behind bars,” said Paul, “would be a hell of a story.”

“Yes,” said Layton, “but so is ours.”

“She’s no way of knowing that in advance.”

“Perhaps I flatter myself,” said Layton, “but, as she knows who I am, I think it would be obvious that anything that could prompt me to such actions must be material for quite the story.”

Paul glared at him. “I wouldn’t call that _flattery_. At any rate, why wait for a chance of a good story instead of making one for herself?”

“A reporter’s ethics,” said Layton.

“A contradiction in terms,” Paul countered.

“Curiosity,” Layton continued. “Credibility-- would the police believe her? Longevity-- who would be better acquainted with the risks of attaining overnight success?”

“I dunno,” said Paul, “I think capturing a notorious criminal could be milked for a pretty long time.”

“Consider the light she’s painted us in thus far,” said Layton. “She could have sensationalized it as the mad ravings of a dangerous criminal. Instead, she’s aired our grievances--”

“Robin Hood makes a great story,” said Paul, “but it doesn’t stop him dying in the end.”

“Oh, does he?”

“He must,” said Paul. “They all die in the end. Can’t be allowed otherwise.”

“To be fair, who doesn’t die in the end, really? There’s hardly any other end to--”

“Why the devil are we talking about how Robin Hood dies?!”

“Bloodletting,” said Elaine, carrying the lamp, “and do keep it down. This is a library. We have standards to maintain.”

A strident voice carried from the other side of the library. “ _William Eustace Martin! You get down from that bookshelf right now!_ ”

Elaine shut her eyes. “They’re mostly lies,” she said, and hurried toward the fiction department.

“Who the hell dies of bloodletting?” said Paul. “What an idiotic way to go.”

“It was a standard practice in--”

“Doesn’t make it any less stupid, and doesn’t make it any better a topic of discussion. Nor a better place to bloody have it…”

“Paul,” said Layton, “it was always going to have to happen eventually.”

“What the hell do you mean?”

“To make these accusations-- to successfully bring them down-- it requires publicity. We’ve been leaving it to chance. We can’t do that forever.”

Paul was silent for a long moment. “Doesn’t mean you have to choose this one.”

“Why not? Who better?”

“I haven’t exactly had a chance to look into it! Other than her having figured it out--”

“--which is certainly a recommendation for her skill and cleverness--”

“--why pick her over anyone else?”

“Because she asked,” said Layton. “Because I doubt she’ll take no for an answer, or sit idly by should we go with someone else. And because I suspect she is a friend of a friend.”

“Is that so?”

Layton considered explaining, but decided against it. Paul would probably just latch on to the part where she had been a Targent spy for months and insist that was less reason to trust her. “Furthermore, your argument is that she might betray us. She’ll have even more motive and opportunity to do so if we don’t play along. So why not go?”

“Because it could be an _ambush_ ,” Paul said, with exaggerated patience. “An ‘ambush’ is when enemies lie in wait at a place they know you’ll be and--”

“So how do we reduce the risk of that?”

“Is this what I do now?” said Paul, after a moment. “Advise you on the least stupid way to do idiotic things?”

Layton considered that. “Yes. That does appear to be one of your major roles in this endeavour.”

“Bloody hell,” said Paul, and put his head in his hands.

“Considering we’re both alive and free, you’ve been doing a superlative job,” Layton added.

“Stop buttering me up, you twit, it’s not going to bloody work,” Paul grumbled, his voice muffled.

Layton considered that. “Isn’t it?”

Paul lifted his head to stare at him.

“The available evidence would suggest that--”

“I’m going to drug you in your sleep and hang you off the Tower of London by your underthings,” said Paul.

Layton smiled at that, just a little. It was an absurd notion, for one. And it would definitely be a bad idea to say _no, you won’t_.

“Wipe that smirk off your ridiculous square face, you smug bastard, or I swear by God I will beat you with the collected works of William Shakespeare.”

“I’d suggest the fine arts section,” said Elaine. “There’s some art books that are considerably heavier, have much more convenient dimensions, and I can assure you more than one has already drawn blood. Though I would appreciate it if you tried to keep the bloodletting in the library to a minimum.”

“...Layton,” said Paul, “for a number of reasons, I am going to suggest we continue this idiotic conversation somewhere much further away from the books.”

“It hardly seems in my best interest to disagree,” said Layton.

“I said to wipe that smirk off your ridiculous square face!”

“What exactly have you got against squares?”

“Gah!” Paul got up, shoving his chair halfway across the aisle in the process, and stormed away. 

Layton started to gather up the newspapers; he could at least leave them in a neat pile. After a moment, he realised he was still smiling.

Well. Though the thought gave him pause, it was probably for the best that he derive _some_ enjoyment out of these absurd circumstances. It would make life considerably more pleasant.

“Are you coming or aren’t you?!”

“Yes, I’ll be right there!” With a nod to the librarians, and a ghost of a smile, he set off.

\--


	3. Chapter 3

\--

McGarry’s was a small establishment, slightly dim, largely built around a large bar on one wall of the building. There were booths on the other wall, though, if one wound through the overcrowded tables; and there she was, in the very back, squinting down at the table she had strewn with papers. She’d arrived five minutes earlier. It was possible they’d gone so far as to time it.

He knew full well what she looked like, but he studied her anyway. She was bent over her work, holding her drink away from the papers (a martini, but virgin; she was hoping to give him the impression that her senses might be dulled). Her hair was pulled back at the nape of her neck, but it was short enough that multiple tendrils were escaping. Her nose was sharp, vaguely birdlike; she wore little makeup, but the small details of it were dramatic. She seemed to favour a peach colour; she’d been wearing a blazer, but had set it beside her, carelessly. He wondered how much of this little scene was here to convey her desired impression, and how much was genuine.

Well, he’d reached the limits of what he could deduce without further information. He made his way to the last booth, and rapped his knuckles against the wood. “Good evening.”

She looked up, and smiled, something easy and wide and a little bit smug. “Good evening, Professor,” she said. “Do you mind if I call you Professor?”

“Most people do,” he said. “And it seems silly to attempt to obfuscate it at this point. Though it might be best to stick with the bare title.”

“Of course,” she agreed, and looked up at him, eyes darting quickly along his face. “To be perfectly honest, I didn’t quite expect you to show up without the mask.”

He smiled, wryly. "Either you think very little of me, or very little of our constabulary… May I join you, then?"

“A fair point,” she said. “And I did issue quite a clear invitation. Please, Professor, sit.” She gestured at the spot across from her.

He did, looking down at the table between them. Grainy pictures and newspaper columns, all cut out in rectangles. “Might I ask what this is on the table?”

"Oh, I'm just working on this article layout for tomorrow. I don't want to change the size of any of the pictures, and I've cut it down as far as I can go, but I can't get it to fit in this space they've given me..."

He smiled. He knew a test when he saw one, but he was not inclined to give in so easily. “I suppose that sort of puzzle occurs quite often in your line of work.”

“Indeed it does,” she said. “Would you like something to eat? Perhaps a drink? It’s best to ask directly at the bar.”

“Perhaps I shall,” said Layton. “However, I’d prefer to begin by asking why you’ve invited me here.”

She smiled, and sipped her drink. “I want to hear,” she said, “your side of the story.”

“Yes, but I have attempted to be fairly clear about that,” he countered.

“To a degree,” she said. “What you’re doing is reasonably clear. What you haven’t explained is why.”

“Does the pursuit of justice really require that much explanation?”

“When it prompts donning a mask to cause terror amongst the hoi polloi,” she said, “I think it rather does.”

“To cause terror? Is it really?”

“In certain circles.”

“What excellent news.” 

She laughed. “See, you must understand it’s quite the puzzle,” she said. “What would prompt a respectable university professor to such a course of action?”

“Well, you’ve seen some of it for yourself,” he said. “I’m well aware you were at Mountebank’s last party.”

“I believe I’ve had the honour of covering most of your appearances,” she said. “Though I might’ve missed the Clarence incident, and I heard the strangest story about a chicken processing plant…”

“Indeed, I do believe you and your photographer have been there from the start,” said Layton. “Is it usual that you would always work with the same one?”

Starling shrugged. “We’re both fairly new on the scene, so our selection of topics is limited,” she said. “But she’s the best we have, and she has a certain set of skills that I value a great deal.”

“Yes, you mentioned wanting to get off of the society beat…” Which of course betrayed that he was familiar with Emmy’s skills, but he suspected she was already aware of that. She didn’t seem to react, anyway, just nodding. 

“So I ask again, Professor,” she said, leaning forward. “What would prompt a respectable gentleman-- hypothetically, of course-- to don a mask and seek justice against some nebulous conspiracy?”

“A less-than-nebulous conspiracy, of course,” he said, and sighed. “I suspect I’d best arrange something to drink. One moment, please.”

She frowned a little, but let him go. “Have you tea, perhaps?” he asked the bartender.

“I’m afraid not,” said the man, politely, and glared at him. 

“A tall glass of water, please, then,” he said, “and perhaps some sherry.”

“Certainly, ma’am,” said the bartender, and handed him both. Layton sighed and took them back to the table.

“Is that sherry?” she said, looking at his glass. “You won’t make friends with Ramon that way.”

“Hmm, yes, I’d got that impression.” He took a sip, and then a longer drink of the water. 

“So,” said Starling. There was an open notebook beside her, now. “Shall we start at the beginning?”

And where might that be? A robot crashing through the heart of the city? An experiment gone wrong? A woman on a beautiful spring day, laughing as she helped him retrieve his scattered papers? Earlier? “I fear,” he said, “there isn’t such a thing.”

“I’ve heard that argument,” she said, “but I save that for the artists. I’m more the practical sort. This conspiracy of yours. When did you learn of it?”

He switched back to the sherry. “I assume you’ve researched my history.”

She inclined her head. “I want it in your words.”

“Nonetheless, a contextual understanding will save us both a great deal of time and trouble.” 

“Assume I’m a nosy blighter,” said Starling. He already had, to be honest; the pen she was twirling was an excellent reminder.

“When I was a student at Gressenheller,” said Layton, “I met a woman who was brilliant, compassionate, and beautiful. She took an interest in me, for reasons I never did fully understand, and we went so far as to plan a future together.”

“Ms. Claire Foley,” said Starling. She hadn’t even glanced at her notes; she was either very subtle, or had studied very hard. He wasn’t sure which possibility was less disconcerting.

“She was a student of theoretical physics,” he said. “She took a position on one of the department’s more outré projects.” Would omitting details draw more attention to his omission? “You might recognise the names of her advisors. The project’s head was one Dimitri Allen.”

“A familiar name indeed.”

“And its co-chair was one Bill Hawks.”

“Ah,” said Starling. “A considerably more familiar name.”

He gazed at the table. “Their research might have been outre, but it garnered considerable interest. And as always-- though it’s a truth we hate to swallow, in academia-- there was considerable pressure to produce results. They attempted a trial of their project; it failed, disastrously. I’m sure you have the details in your notes.”

She’d have to. It was high-profile; it was obvious. She’d have to have the details already. And if he were fortunate, if just this once he were fortunate--

“I do,” she said. “Clive left quite the dossier.”

“Clive did?”

“I raided his desk after he left us,” she said. “There wasn’t much left, but his fixations were obvious.”

“He said he’d worked for a newspaper, didn’t he?” Layton realised. “Why on earth didn’t he simply publish his findings?”

“Much the same reasons I didn’t, I imagine,” said Starling. “That is, not for lack of trying.”

“It wasn’t permitted?”

“It was subtly discouraged,” she said, with a wry quirk of her lips. “But then, it turns out that little princeling could have bought a newspaper of his own. I suspect he had other reasons for not taking that route.”

“I also had drawn that conclusion,” said Layton. It seemed trivial to prove that creating an underground city, as well as going on a destructive rampage with a giant robot, were never the most _efficient_ solutions to any given problem. Then again, there must be some problem, however incredibly unlikely, that they would be the optimal solution for. He wondered what, before realising that he was starting to get pulled into a puzzle again, and firmly shelving the problem for later. “Well, then. If you know about that, what’s left for me to tell you?”

“Everything,” she said. “What really happened with Clive? Why didn’t it end there? What brought you into it? Why the _mask_?”

Layton took a slow sip of sherry. “Everything, indeed,” he said, and tried not to even think about the fact that it wasn’t. His only talent in deceit lay in omission.

“I have been accused of being overly ambitious,” she said, and grinned. A slightly predatory grin, but one that invited him to share the joke.

“Well, I naturally began to investigate the incident at the time of the explosion,” said Layton, “but my efforts were cut short by an encounter with a group of armed thugs. I deemed it more prudent to focus my attention elsewhere after that.”

“More prudent?” She raised her eyebrows. “You gave up so easily?”

“Nothing about it was easy,” said Layton. “I’m an only child. My parents had feared I wouldn’t survive. Have you ever seen…” He shook his head. He didn’t want to remember the look in his mother’s eyes, the trembling in his father’s hands. The memory of the Ascots and their silent accusations. Angela’s less silent ones. “I chose to live.”

“It was that serious, then?”

“It was,” Layton admitted.

“So,” said Starling. “Whence the armed thugs?”

“A certain conglomeration of political interests that has grown more cohesive with time,” said Layton. “They’d funded the project; they’d profited from its technology, disastrous as it might have turned out. They didn’t want their involvement to become public knowledge.”

“It was a profitable speculation?”

“They were pushing the boundaries of theoretical physics,” said Layton. “The practical applications weren’t obvious, but Bill was always an excellent salesman. I believe it’s produced some fruit-- in navigation and communication equipment, if I remember rightly. The industries. I fear it isn’t my field, and it’s difficult to keep abreast.”

“And when the project ended as it did--”

“There’d been pressure to produce results.”

“And the publicity would have been awful.” Starling frowned pensively. “Yet it certainly seems to have done them no harm.”

“The distraction, and the thugs, were quite effective.”

“Enough that Mr. Hawks was able to enter into a successful political career.”

“Backed by many of the same interests,” said Layton, “who found his ambitions of interest… and their mutual secrets quite convenient.”

“You’re saying they funded his campaigns.”

“And that they continue to.” Layton sipped his sherry. “There are various policies that the Prime Minister has enacted that are disproportionately beneficial to certain interests.”

“I see.” She tapped her fingers. “Why now?”

“Pardon?”

“If this has been going on for years. Why protest now?”

“The... recent incident, with Clive,” said Layton. “You must have guessed his motivations by now. He wished to unmask the man and reveal the truth of the originating incident. I assumed Hawks would step down once his involvement was revealed. But it wasn’t revealed. They continued with the same old tactics. The same old tactics did not permit me to remain a possible liability.”

“They sent more thugs?”

“Which quite effectively brought home the fact that I can no longer allow matters to stand as they are. Even if I wanted to, they are apparently unwilling to chance it. I was attacked, my office ransacked, my home set alight.”

“A notable failure in tactics,” said Starling. “They hardly gave you a choice. Odd, given that they’d been content to leave you for so long.”

“They didn’t think I could stand it any longer,” said Layton. “After this… They might have been right. But they might have been very wrong. I was willing to sleep for so long. I was willing to close my eyes. Could I have done it again, in the name of decorum, magnanimity, turning the other cheek? Or in the name of survival? Would I have been briefly indignant, then simply let it go and turn my attention to other affairs? I suspect I have that potential within me. I very much fear I would have been capable of it. I think I am just as glad I wasn’t given the choice.”

Starling looked at him, one arm propped on the table, a measuring look in her eyes. Layton waited it out, taking a sip of his drink. He was nothing if not patient. 

“I assume you’ve some sort of proof,” she said.

He took a carefully wrapped folder from an inner pocket of his coat. “This is what I have,” he said. “My investigation is far from complete, of course, but this should provide an overview.”

She took the folder, but didn’t open it. “Why didn’t you make this public to begin with?”

“Why didn’t Clive? Why didn’t you? It wasn’t so easy as that. Furthermore, there was a great deal of investigation to be done. I wouldn’t want to accuse an innocent.”

“Oh?”

“It’s a dark and shameful business,” said Layton. “One can excuse the deals as politics, but from the very start, this has been written in blood. The lives that were lost in the explosion were merely the beginning. They could have admitted to it. They’d done nothing illegal. But rather than face censure, they shed more blood to cover it up. And it has continued as it had begun. Such things always do. Why change a tactic that works? If you allow the loss of a life or two here and there, how quickly does it begin to add up? It cannot be countenanced, Ms. Starling. I looked away. I held my tongue. I had my reasons-- but it was a grievous wrong. This is the only way I can atone.”

“And the criminality of your actions?”

Layton almost answered, but he paused, returning her measuring look. This was a reporter he was talking to. Her questions were posed for a reason. She would use what he said against him.

...Or for him. He reflected on the conversation thus far. “You want me to justify myself,” he said.

“Isn’t that what you want?”

“I suppose I should. But I’m uncertain. I don’t feel much of a hero. I don’t want to be a symbol.”

She raised a sardonic eyebrow. “This from the Puzzle Professor?”

“I wasn’t exactly consulted in the creation of that moniker…”

“You just didn’t know how to prevent it?”

“That would be a lie as well, wouldn’t it?” He stared into his glass-- mostly ice now. “Perhaps I did want to be a symbol. Perhaps that seemed easier than being a person. Perhaps it’s just this symbol I’m afraid of.”

She cocked her head quizzically, but said nothing. Waiting for him. 

“There’s been too much death,” he said. “Too much blood. Too many lesser crimes as well. It can’t be endured. The proper means of restoring justice have been co-opted. I do not like this course of action. And yet I see no other ethical choice.”

“Trespassing and vandalism are ethical?”

“More so than looking the other way,” said Layton. “You know that very well. You were there. But then, it’s not you you’re asking me to convince, is it?”

Starling smiled. “Work with me, then,” she said. “You know I want a quote. Give it to me.”

He looked at her. “I will not stand idly by while the laws of my country are broken and subverted for the petty profit of a privileged few. I will not wait for the next disaster and hope that it passes me by. I will not wait for the next Clive Dove to come to me. I will do all that is within my power to stand against it. Here. Now. Before we forget that there was ever another way.”

He closed his eyes. “It’s the duty of an English gentleman. I will not walk away from it. Not at any risk. Not for any price.”

He sighed at the memory of Claire’s smile, and opened his eyes again. “And I think I have provided you with more than sufficient quotes.”

“You do have a remarkable way with words.” She smiled, nodding at him, before scribbling something down.

“The subject matter makes it easy to be dramatic.”

“It does, at that.” She made a few more notes, scribbled something out, then sat back with a hum of satisfaction. She looked up at him, with a grin, but then her face grew troubled. “Professor. You are entirely sure?”

“I do believe I’d just waxed quite eloquently on that subject.”

“The stakes are high.”

“I thought I’d just explained that at length as well.”

She tapped the folder against the table. “You hadn’t named them explicitly before. You hadn’t cited sources, specified exactly how deep it went. They could pretend you were referring to someone else, could pretend you were of no consequence. Do you realise this will be a declaration of war?”

“The war started a long time ago,” said Layton. “But yes, I realise this will make that fact public.”

“They won’t be able to let it go.”

“They’ve shown no inclination to thus far.”

“Professor,” she said, “they are going to attack you, in the press, with the police force, and quite possibly physically. This is no mere threat to your honour, nor even to your freedom, though I assure you both will be imperiled. This is a threat to your life.”

“Miss Starling,” he said, “I understand you perfectly well. I have been aware of this for quite some time. And it simply can’t be helped.”

“You’re prepared to face the consequences, then?”

“I certainly hope so. But it hardly matters. They shall come regardless.” 

There was a moment of silence; he sipped his water, unconcerned. “I see,” said Starling, after a few moments, “how you made such an impression on her.”

He looked down at the table; her hand was resting near a photograph. “I wondered,” he said, “why you didn’t choose to mention her in your letter.”

“I considered it,” she said, “but I thought it would seem like an obvious ploy. As well as be one.”

“I must admit I thought the better of you for it.” He looked at the photograph again. The lead actress in a play, from the look of it, no relevant topic, but her work still seemed familiar to him. Perhaps that was only because he knew it was hers. “How is Emmy doing? It’s been some time since I saw her last.”

She looked confused for a moment, before nodding in understanding. From the byline, she was going by a different name now, after all. He should have expected as much, after what happened. “I think she’s well,” she said, “but honestly it’s hard to say. She plays her cards close to the chest.”

“I certainly couldn’t deny that.” He smiled a little, ruefully. “Do give her my regards, if you would. I do wish… well, I wish that she would visit, but this isn’t exactly the time. Perhaps someday.”

“I got the impression that your parting was a bit… strained.”

“Indeed, but there were never any hard feelings on my part. I do hope she knows that. But I suspect she does. It just doesn’t make a difference.”

“Well, there’s certainly a story _there_.”

“Yes, but haven’t you enough to be getting on with?”

“Never, sir.” She grinned, sitting back. “Still, that might suffice for the evening. How may we get in contact again, if the need arises?”

“Well, my habits are decidedly irregular at the moment,” said Layton, “and I do fear that, should you publish this article, your movements may be traced. Still, I am fairly certain I could at least arrange to get a message to you here, even if it’s an insufficiently clandestine spot to meet.”

“Fair enough,” she said. “I suppose I’d best leave it to you. But what if I need to contact you?”

He smiled. “You could put it in a letter,” he said. “The last one was successful enough.”

“Professor--”

“Or you’ve a newspaper,” he said. “I’ve no doubt you could arrange for a message in the classifieds. Post a puzzle; I will find it.”

“So I’ll have to come up with a puzzle every time I want to talk to you?”

“At times, it seems everyone else does,” he said. “And they don’t seem to find it an overly difficult challenge to surmount. Speaking of, may I?”

He gestured at the table; she lifted her arms away. In a few swift movements, he arranged the articles to fit in the rectangle allotted.

Her smile was smug and knowing. “Been eating at you, has it?” 

“Honestly, yes.”

“I admire your restraint.”

“A gentleman does not interrupt a conversation, even in the cause of solving puzzles.”

“And you are nothing,” she said, “if not a gentleman.”

“I do aspire to be.”

“Though you are a particularly enigmatic one.”

He shrugged, unwilling to agree. He did not consider himself to be a complicated man. He was a gentleman, an archaeologist, a professor with a fondness for puzzles. What more was there to him than that?

“I suppose I’ll bid you a good night, then, Professor,” said Starling. Layton nodded, and rose to leave. “And Professor?”

He looked back at her; her eyes were clear and serious. “I wish you the best of luck.”

“Thank you,” he said. “And, please-- do not let my trust be misplaced.”

“I won’t,” she said.

With a cordial nod, he set off. It was possible he was a fool to believe her. But she seemed sound enough, his options were few, and besides-- he was an incredibly foolish man.

\--

Maggie Starling smiled, pulling out notebook and pen. She felt a little guilty at her own excitement; she could very well be playing a hand in the death of a good man. But still, it was the right thing to do; and what was the shame in glorying in it? The story needed to be told. Her presence did not alter the facts.

“Ramon?” she called. “An Irish coffee.” It was going to be a long night. She wouldn’t finish this, not quite yet, not with the other deadlines she had to meet-- and this couldn’t be rushed, it would take care. Not tomorrow’s paper. But the day after-- before the weekend--

She’d be doing something _real_.

Ramon set her drink on the counter; she went up to get it, taking a sip as she made her way back to her seat. She paused, making a face. This wasn’t right. She knew it was viewed sacrilege by the absurd purists, but she liked her coffee sweet; the smooth sweetness of the Irish coffee was what had kept her coming here in the first place, and Ramon always added a little extra sugar for her. This was bitter, like it had hardly been sweetened at all. Ramon wouldn’t do that. Not unless something was very wrong.

She turned to look at him. His back was turned; he was drying glasses, as he usually did, but he was stacking them as he went. Something was wrong with that. Ramon was always pausing to stack them, wasn’t he? Every five or six glasses, he’d make another stack. 

He caught her eye in the mirror; he turned around, setting his hands on the counter. Waiting.

She could ask who he worked for-- but why would he tell her? And who would be tailing a society reporter here, now? Tonight of all nights? Who would know to be here except someone who’d been invited?

“How is Ramon?” she asked instead.

“Called in with the flu,” he said. “Actually having dinner with a redhead. I don’t intend to inquire any further.”

“I see,” she said, staring at him. By god, it was uncanny. Even knowing it wasn’t Ramon, she still wasn’t sure she believed it. “Who are you?”

“You can’t seriously expect me to answer that?” He snorted. “Birds of a feather and all that, but just because I currently associate with a naive fool doesn’t mean I am one too. For god’s sake.”

Fair enough. Though, of course, he had just confirmed their association. “What are you doing here?” she asked instead.

“Betray him,” said the man, “and I swear by God I will make you regret it.”

That word again. This couldn’t be Emmy. She’d have known better than to use the same phrase. But the coincidence was striking. At any rate, she knew what role this man was playing, if not precisely who he was. “I knew you had to exist,” said Maggie, fascinated. “What an extraordinary talent. Where on earth did he find you?”

“An exclusive club, of men who don’t answer foolish questions,” he said. He tossed his white towel over his shoulder and walked away.

She turned away, tapping a finger to her lips in thought. This man. This cause. This strange and broadening array of allies.

She saw peril all around him, dangers she still didn’t believe he could truly comprehend, and yet-- she was starting to believe he might just pull it off.

Of course, a reporter shouldn’t take sides. But she didn't really have to. It would be a hell of a story either way.

\--


End file.
